. . . subLiminality . . .

Just finished reading Cormac McCarthy's The Road. I was completely engrossed in what was, on the surface, a "post-apocalyptic" novel about an unspecified time in history when an un-named man and his son journeyed through a gray, utterly mundane wasteland in order simply to survive. But it was even more about the man and the boy and the love-bond existing between them. The best novel I've read in a long time.

Interestingly, I began reading it on our aforementioned roadtrip of all things. During that time, while staying with my parents in Illinois, I asked to keep a copy of a photo of my own dad with his dad from back in the 60's (judging by the car in the background). I kept the picture as a bookmark while reading The Road. My own dad and I have a good relationship, we love and respect one another as father and son should. But reading this story in the context of the photo and considering my own journey, I've begun to revisit what it means to be a son and a father. Fascinating how a book can do that, or any fine art for that matter.

The pastor who performed our wedding defines marriage as "a lifelong working out of incompatabilities." A definition that gets extended to our own children. Today I got put into a "time-out" by my wife for yelling at my kids...I'm ashamed to admit it...then later asked the kids what kind of consequence I deserved and so I got soap in my mouth! It really lingered for quite some time, and really made me regret my tantrum earlier (no matter how justified it may have been). It was one of those deals where on kid took some toys from his siblings without asking, and for like half the day neither of the other kids noticed...but when they did, it was like war. My younger son, who took the toys (and was really playing quite well with them, doing no harm at all), screamed (his typical response in cases like this), and then left me at a loss because I didn't want to reward him for screaming but also realized that he wasn't doing anyone any harm. The other kids started grabbing the toys (another no-no) and hell broke loose. No one was right and no one was absolutely wrong either! I was at a loss and thus the yelling, time-out, contrition, hugs, and, of course, soap...

...I've found it fascinating how those the closest to us can be the victim of our worst and yet we would die for those folks all in the same breath. That's the way it is with my kids. I hope to, and plan to (ha, ha), never yell again; but in case I just happen to lose it, my kids can always give me soap.

Thus we journey on...

They were all day on the long black road, stopping in the afternoon to eat sparingly from their meager supplies. The boy took his truck from the pack and shaped roads in the ash with a stick. The truck tooled along slowly. The made truck noises. The day seemed warm and they slept in the leaves with their packs under their heads . . .

. . . Something woke him. He turned on his side and lay listening. He raised his head slowly, the pistol in his hand. He looke down at the boy and when he looked back toward the road the first of them were already coming into view. God, he whispered.

From The Road